


damned if you do

by finalizer_archive



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, That Night At The Opera: Extended Edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 14:36:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer_archive/pseuds/finalizer_archive
Summary: It was just the two of them left, deceived and discarded, alone against the rest of the world.





	damned if you do

 

Snicket’s taxi was unnervingly silent as it drove away. It was unnerving how easy it was to steal a sugar bowl, throw a poison dart, and escape unscathed into the dark, twisting streets of the city.

The car turned the corner and disappeared into the night.

“Beatrice will pay for this,” Esmé heard herself say. The words felt distant, directed at nobody in particular; a lingering threat thrown to the wind.

A low creak came from behind as a second individual stepped onto the fire escape. Esmé didn’t turn. She knew all too well it could only be one person.

“Oh, no,” Olaf corrected. Esmé couldn’t tell if his voice truly shook, or if her frayed nerves were playing cruel tricks. “ _She’ll burn._ ”

Esmé tightened her grip on the steel barrier. Beatrice _would_ burn. There were worse things than theft — things like backstabbing, or friendly fire. Things like betrayal.

Her gaze dropped from the street corner behind which Snicket had vanished. Beatrice still stood at the back exit, arms crossed over her chest to shield herself from the evening chill. It was easier this way, to let her think she got away with it all, that Snicket took the blame and absolved her of all responsibility. That false sense of security was a gift. Beatrice would slip up eventually, and in her moment of carelessness, Esmé would deliver payback, sharp and swift between the third and fourth rib.

As if on cue, Beatrice swerved on her heel and slipped back inside the theater. Just like that, perfect and innocent, as the authorities pursued a speeding taxi halfway across town.

There came a sharp intake of breath from beside her and Esmé flinched, remembering Olaf was there. Olaf, who had just lost everything.

The air around him was tense, fueled by chaotic rage, like a time bomb ticking faster and faster, inching closer to total annihilation with each passing second. But there was something far more vulnerable beneath that — cracks in that facade, seeping through. The glistening eyes, unwanted and unshed tears, the trembling fingers wrapped around the spyglass he gripped in his hands, knuckles white with the effort.

“Olaf,” Esmé started. She turned toward him, keeping her voice low, as if he would startle and make a run for it if she spoke any louder. “Are you — ”

“Of course I’m not damn okay,” he spat. His tone was biting, but hollow. He was hurt, and he was lashing out in the only way he knew how. He stared blankly out at the empty expanse of the street, practically vibrating with fury, and his words failed him. “They — my — ”

His voice broke, and Esmé had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from crumbling apart. She’d never seen him like this. Never, in all the time they’d known each other, through all the ups and downs, through all the chaos they’d endured. 

She reached down and pried the spyglass from his hands. He was cold and impossibly tense. He was trembling and Esmé couldn’t think of a single thing to help him stop hurting. Comfort wasn’t in her nature.

Setting the spyglass down on the ledge at the side of the building, she took Olaf’s hands in hers and unfurled his fingers from the rigid fists they were clenched into. He did nothing to stop her, his expression empty and distracted. The streetlights from below flickered and reflected in the tears he wouldn't let spill. He wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Olaf,” Esmé repeated, more urgently. She needed him to snap out of it before his turmoil rose to a crescendo and wrecked him from the inside out; she needed him to realize she was there, desperately offering consolation in any way she knew how. “Olaf, look at me.”

He turned his head in an erratic, jerking motion and met her eyes. His gaze was cloudy, muddled with everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Esmé choked out. There was nothing else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

She let go of his hands and reached up to cup his face with trembling fingers. She was as gentle as she could bear, her touch trailing so softly she barely brushed his skin. Olaf let himself get drawn in for a feather light kiss, then another, and another. Esmé’s grip on him solidified and Olaf, in turn, instinctively raised his hands to her waist. She was there, she was real and tangible, and he had something to hold on to, something to anchor him to the here and now.

Olaf blinked and Esmé jerked away when she felt the tears streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. She withdrew her hands, leaving them hovering over Olaf’s chest, not quite touching, but close enough to grab at him if he pulled her back in.

And that he did. Before Esmé had the time to choke out another word, he dug his fingers into her hips and dragged her against him, ducking down to press his lips to hers again. Esmé’s startled gasp was muffled, and she melted into his arms, her hands sliding over his chest and towards his shoulders as Olaf took a step forward, maneuvering the two of them until Esmé’s back hit the steel barrier of the fire escape.

It wasn't the best way to deal with the pent up rage, the frustration and the whole damn nuclear storm of emotions bubbling up inside him but Olaf couldn’t find the strength to care. He was drowning in adrenaline, choking and sputtering, and he leapt at the opportunity to free himself from everything he did not want to be feeling. This was a distraction as much as it was a purge — he dragged up everything he was feeling and channeled it into the bruising kiss. His hands skimmed lower, over her thighs, his fingers brushing against the exposed sliver of skin where her dress parted.

Esmé made an unintelligible sound against his lips and drew her hands around his neck to tug him impossibly closer. Her nails scraped over his skin and Olaf couldn’t suppress the shiver that raced through him. The damn woman had always affected him in ways no one else ever could, blood roaring in his ears and heart pounding for a different reason now than it did mere minutes before.

He pushed up against her, and Esmé groaned as the barrier behind her dug into her back. There was no indication she wanted him to stop. If anything, the way she parted her lips and slipped her fingers into his hair proved otherwise, and that was something Olaf could work with. He wedged a knee between her legs and Esmé grit out a sharp breath and bit at his bottom lip, her hands fluttering back down to his chest to grab at the lapels of his suit and haul him against her.

There was something about this raw exhilaration that made it preferable to heartbreak and utter betrayal, Olaf decided. His grip on Esmé was rough enough to leave marks, and the sounds she was making were wholly indecent for the time and place. If this lasted forever he’d never have to go back to the anguish of plotting the violent murder of his once-closest friends.

But luck was never on his side.

The piercing sound of a car horn blared through the quiet street below and shattered the moment.

Esmé recoiled as if burned, and the hands that were wrapped in Olaf’s suit moments earlier were now pushing him away.

Her chest was heaving and Olaf could tell his own breathing was equally ragged.

He didn't understand the sudden worry slipping onto Esmé’s face.

“What?” he asked. “It was just a damn car.”

Esmé took a few seconds to steady herself before shooting a wary glance at the steel door behind Olaf that led back into the building.

“Are you forgetting your _girlfriend?_ ”

Olaf blinked dumbly. “When has that ever bothered you?”

Esmé’s brows lifted pointedly as her gaze flicked between the door and Olaf’sbewildered expression. “She’s somewhere on the other side of that door and could walk out here at any moment.”

Olaf made a face. “Schematics.”

“Semantics,” Esmé corrected.

“Who cares about orthography? You weren’t interested in her whereabouts last night.”

Esmé’s retort was a hissed whisper. “Last night I had no reason to believe she was on the other side of your bedroom door.”

“Well, last night she wasn’t out slipping Beatrice a box of poison darts during intermission, now, was she?” Olaf snapped.

A beat passed and he clamped his mouth shut, staring at Esmé like he’d only just noticed she was there. This was something impossible to describe, the harrowing difference between thinking something and saying it aloud for the very first time. It made everything seem far too real. He was back in the present, and the hurt was blossoming in his chest all over again, this time sharperthan before. The betrayal stung more than anything, especially coming from someone who’d told him she loved him.

Esmé was watching him with an unreadable expression.

It was just the two of them left, deceived and discarded, alone against the rest of the world. Olaf had always figured it would end this way for him, though he never expected Esmé would be at his side when it did. She’d always been a fun distraction, and it alarmed Olaf to realize she was far more than just that. The flashy, superficial woman in front of him was suddenly the only person he trusted in the world, a lifeboat in a sea of traitors.

Esmé tilted her chin up to look more composed and assured than she felt. “Is this you breaking up with her?”

Olaf faltered. “I don’t — ”

Esmé clenched her jaw. She wasn’t manipulating the situation or taking advantage of Olaf’s fragile mental state, rather playing her cards right and making sure he did too. She cared deeply for this wreck of a man. He deserved better than someone who went behind his back and assisted in the murder of his father. It was high time for Olaf to see that she was there for him, in every meaning of the word.

“She had a hand in this,” Esmé said coldly. “I don't see why you should cut her any slack just because you fucked every now and again.”

Olaf let out a shuddering breath and looked at Esmé like she’d kicked his legs out from under him.

A few seconds passed in deafening silence. The tremor in Olaf’s fingers was back, and he balled his hands into fists at his sides to keep it contained.

The feeling of one’s entire life going wrong all at once was inexpressible. It toed the line between feeling everything and feeling nothing. It hurt so much that it didn’t hurt at all, like fingers frozen numb after a walk through a blizzard.

Olaf’s face crumbled little by little, eyes glazed over and lips trembling as he wracked his mind trying to make sense of everything. He looked lost and confused, destroyed in a way Esmé had never seen anyone destroyed before, like everything he’d known about the world collapsed in a single blow.

Esmé blanched. “I’m sorry — that was too harsh. I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want to force your hand. Whatever happens next, that’s your choice.”

Olaf sniffed, whether disdainfully or to fight back another onslaught of tears, Esmé couldn’t tell. “You say it’s my choice, and yet you’re eager to make my decisions for me. You’re very easy to read, Esmé.”

“The choice is yours,” Esmé repeated, more forcefully.

“Then why are you shaking?”

Esmé mirrored Olaf’s earlier movements and clenched her hands in the fabric of her dress to center herself.

“Beatrice stole from me,” she grit out.

Olaf rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re all worked up over a matching tea set?”

Esmé snapped, “She was going to — ” her voice broke, and she took a quavering breath. Saying it out loud only made it more real. “ — she was going to kill me over it.”

Whatever Olaf was going to say next dissipated before it passed his lips.

Esmé continued. “I was betrayed too. I turned away for seconds and Beatrice broke my trust. And Kit — she lied to you. I never have. I’m on your side. We’re on the same side. I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just trying to make you understand. They’ve killed to get their way. Whatever you decide to do to them now, I’m right there with you.”

Olaf dropped his gaze from Esmé to the ground beneath their feet, the glistening cobblestone street visible through the metal grate of the fire escape. There was only one thing to do now.

Esmé pushed off the barrier behind her and took a step towards Olaf, dragging her fingertips over his chest and cradling his jaw, just as she’d done before. This time it was not a gesture of comfort, but of encouragement.

Olaf forced his eyes back up to meet hers. The glint in them was almost manic. He felt his face twist into a truly wicked smile, and hers followed suit soon after.

“They burn,” he said, “all of them.”

**Author's Note:**

> maybe one day i’ll stop blaming [carmen](http://theocrain.com) for every single eslaf fic i write but this time it was actually her idea and therefore actually all her fault. love her for that
> 
> and yes i’m implying olaf and esmé were already a Thing before the night at the opera bc that’s how i’m choosing to interpret her horny attitude in the flashback [sunglasses emoji]
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/finaiizer) & [tumblr](http://esmesqualor.tumblr.com)


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